Page 6 of Road Trip
“Okay, can we eat our lunch now and maybe talk about literally anything except your death wish?” Therese asked, forking into her chicken salad.
“Not yet. After the funeral, reception back at the house. Now, you know my sister Bernadette is going to want to run things…”
“Think positive, Mom. Maybe you’ll outlive herandFran,” Maeve said.
Mary Helen shot her a dirty look. “If she’s still living, which I assume she will be, because you know how Bernie is, she always has to have the last word… she’ll want to bring one of her wretched pound cakes. Just tell her to bring the paper goods. And maybe some flowers from her garden.”
She handed them each a sheet of paper. “Now, don’t lose this. It’s got a list of who brings what.”
Maeve stared down at the paper. “You really expect us to call these women we hardly know and give them their assignments for your wake? That’s pretty nervy, Mama, even for you.”
“Nonsense. You won’t have to call them, because as soon as they get the news that I’m gone, they’ll be the ones callingyou.”
Seven Years Later
By the time Mary Helen Dunagin’s funeral Mass was over and people were streaming into the social hall, everything was ready. White cloths covered tables adorned with flower arrangements contributed by the altar guild, and long tables at the back of the room were completely covered with platters of funeral food, three-quarters of which were desserts.
Maeve stood in the receiving line, right beside Aunt Bernie and Aunt Fran, Uncle Keith, and assorted cousins, accepting condolences, hugs, cheek kisses, and back pats. Her face was numb from smiling. In fact, her entire body was numb.
She felt hollowed out, but not from grief. She’d grieved enough over the past fourteen months, as the dementia and then the cancer slowly erased the essence of the feisty, hilarious, larger-than-life Mary Helen Dunagin she’d known her whole life.
No, this was something else. Relief? Definitely. Her mother had loudly announced that she was ready to go to Jesus nearly every day for the past three months.
Restlessness. That was it. She’d put her own life on hold, taken leave from her job as a creative writing professor at Georgia Southern four months ago, when it became clear that her mother needed round-the-clock care. She’d rented out her place and moved into the house on Blueberry Way to begin the long waiting game. Now what?
Therese sidled up behind her in the receiving line. “Why are we here?” she whispered.
Maeve turned to look at her sister, who was already glassy-eyed before noon. She wondered what Therese was on, and whether she would care to share whatever it was.
“Is that supposed to be an existential question?” she asked.
Therese nibbled at a cheese straw. “No. I mean, why are we having this shindig in the church social hall? I thought Mama specified it should be back at the house. Like, you know, with everything in the spreadsheet.”
Maeve’s stomach growled. She’d had nothing but a cup of weak coffee before Mass.
“You wouldn’t have to ask why we aren’t at the house if you’d bothered to drop in and check on Mom over the past year. The house is a shit show. I haven’t had time to get the hospice stuff cleared out.” Her whisper was hoarse enough that her cousins shot her a warning glance.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess I didn’t realize…” Her sister’s voice trailed off as she gazed around the room to find a way to change the subject. “Nice crowd, right? Mom would totally make sure we did a head count.”
“There’s a guest book on a lectern by the door,” Maeve said stiffly. “Feel free to do a body count if it makes you feel better.”
Therese was about to say something else when Aunt Fran approached, leaning on her walker. “Fifteen more minutes here, girls, then we’ll head back to my house.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and flashed a mischievous grin. “And I promise you, I’ll have something more stout to drink than lukewarm coffee and watered-down punch.”
Maeve was standingon the front porch at Fran’s house, sipping a glass of white Zinfandel so sweet it made her teeth ache.
She’d been at Frannie’s for an hour, but so far there was no sign of Therese, which was not a big surprise. How like her to blow off this last family obligation. In a way, Maeve envied her sister her ability to do just as she pleased, whenever she pleased. She would have liked to ditch too, to get in her car and just drive away, back to her own tidy Midtown carriage house, to sleep in her own bed, finally, after all these soul-killing months taking care of her mother. Soon, she promised herself. After she got Mary Helen’s house cleaned out and ready to sell. After her tenant’s lease was up. In two more months. At the end of June, she could move home again. Her home.
She dumped the last of the wine into the neatly trimmed shrubbery lining the porch and was about to go back inside and kiss her aunt goodnight when she saw a familiar car pull up to the curb in front of the house.
It was Mary Helen’s maroon 1988 Chrysler LeBaron—or LeBeast, as her daughters had christened it—a gas-guzzling land yacht that had been their mother’s pride and joy. The car’s tires bumped over the granite curb, narrowly missing a crape myrtle. A moment later, Therese stepped out of the driver’s side. She paused a moment, took a long drag on a vape pen, and watched the smoke trail upward before she came loping across the grass toward the house, vape pen in hand.
She stopped at the bottom step and looked up at her sister frowning down at her from the porch.
“What?” Therese demanded. “What crime did I commit now?”
“Who told you it was okay to drive Mom’s car?” Maeve blurted. “Were you smoking in the Beast? You know how she felt about that.”
Therese shrugged. “I didn’t know I needed a permission slip to borrow my own mother’s car. And yeah, I was smoking in the Beast. Mom’s dead, Maeve. She won’t care, so get over yourself.”
